The Contrarian Tales
by Clar the Pirate
Summary: Well, they could have just as easily been called 'How the Wicked Queen Danced in Red Hot Shoes' or 'The Old Lady in the Oven'. It all depends on how much you know.
1. The Charitable Little Old Woman

**The Charitable Little Old Woman  
**

Once upon Tuesday the 8th of March, at 2.35pm, a little old woman looked out her kitchen window and noticed there was a man in her garden. She was surprised to see that the man was one of her new neighbours, who had seemed like a very nice, respectable young man when they smiled at each other as they passed in the street and not at all given to entering people's gardens uninvited. But what surprised her the most was the dark shiny green vegetable cradled in his arms, and the hole in her vegetable patch from which it obviously came.

The little old woman stormed out of her kitchen, holding a wooden spoon in her hand, waggling it fiercely at the thief. "And just what is the meaning of this, young man?"

"Get away from me, witch!" he shouted.

Now, the little old woman thought this was blatantly unfair. A year ago, the miller had refused to give her reasonably priced wheat so that she could make her own bread, insisting that she buy his ready-made version, apparently forgetting that there is no taste in the world that can beat fresh home-made bread. In a fit of anger, the little old woman had espied two pales of milk left out in the sun and pronounced "If ye will not give me wheat the milk will suffer for it!" Then, realizing the absurdity of her statement began laughing and looked to the miller to join her in her hilarity. The miller was staring at her with undisguised terror; the little old woman decided it might be a good time to leave. As she walked away, she heard the miller tell the young boy who had come to collect his milk to leave the cursed liquid alone. Consequently, it was left in the sun all day and soon went sour. The people of the village marked her as an evil, vengeful witch. The little old women thought that a basic understanding of chemistry and refrigeration, and a swift temper didn't warrant such a label but if it meant she got food stuffs cheap she was willing to let it stick.

"Keep away!" the young man shouted again.

"Young man, let's just put the vegetable down and talk about this reasonably."

"Not with a wand in your hand!"

The little old woman looked at the wooden spoon in her hand, with its bulbous unashamedly spoon-shaped end dripping chicken soup onto the garden path, and sighed. Obviously, the poor man was unstable.

She gently laid the cutlery on the ground with slow, unthreatening movements. "There you go. Now, will you kindly explain what you are doing with my rampion?"

"M-my wife wants some. She s-saw it from her window and felt such a, such a hunger for just one little bite. No, don't come near me!" he screamed, when the little old woman attempted to step forward.

She stopped in her tracks and said in a calm soothing voice, "But why did you have to steal it? Couldn't you have gone down to the grocer, I'm sure she wouldn't know the difference."

"She would! She's very clever," protested the man. "And she's watching, see, wanting to witness her man perform Valiant Deeds."

The look of absolute adoration and devotion he sent at one of the windows of his house was terrible to observe. The little old woman followed his gaze and saw a pretty young woman standing behind the glass, waving cheerfully. She was horrified to see the woman was pregnant.

"She says she will die of pining if she does not soon consume some of these delectable leaves," whispered the man, worshipfully.

A very clear picture was forming. A spoilt, domineering wife and a weak man she had twisted around her little finger; not ideal parents. Not even satisfactory parents. The little old woman made a snap decision. She could not allow these two to bring a young life into the world and expect them to look after it properly. After a few weeks, the woman would probably tire of her new toy and cast it aside. That would only happen over the little old woman's dead body! the little old woman concluded.

She snatched up the spoon and advanced on the young man, saying in a voice she hoped was suitably frightening and witch-like, "I will give ye the plant ye desire, but only for a price."

The young man seemed frozen in horror.

"A terrible price!" she added for good measure.

The young man still stood as still as one the margarine statues the little old woman was fond of making.

"I will exchange ye the shrub for the legal guardianship of your new-born child, subject to the approval of the courts."

With a great twitch, he burst into life. "Of course, of course!" he shouted over his shoulder, as he jumped the wall that connected their properties.

The speed with which the man had given up his first-born for a common garden plant reassured her that these two young people were in no way fit to be parents. So it was with relief, two months later, that she found a tiny, gorgeous girl on her doorstep with a note pinned to her blanket, _Thanks for the rapunzel_.

And if she happened to name the little baby after the stolen vegetable, well, she had always had a terrible sense of humour.

The end.

* * *

_This is the end although, if people ask _really_ nicely, there may just be a sequel entitled The Promiscuous Vegetable in the Tower (or words to that effect). But it'll be a wee way off, after a couple of others. _


	2. The Little Boy who got a Good Spanking

_The author in no way condones violence towards children, and assures you that __no characters were harmed during the making of_

_

* * *

_

**The Boy who got a Good Spanking that He Rightly Deserved**

Once upon the first Monday of June at 5.14am, a little boy sprang out of his bed, grabbed a pair of socks out of his drawers and managed to get one of them on before he became too impatient and sprinted to his parents' room.

His parents, hearing the dawn chorus of rapidly thumping feet, desperately huddled under their blankets and braced themselves for impact. With balletic grace akin to an elephant's, the little boy jumped at the bed, landing squarely on his father's ankle.

"It's today!"

"No, it is not. The sun isn't up yet so go back to bed."

The little boy glared at the two inert, misshapen lumps, then slowly scrambled of the stupid grown-ups leaving them to stupid sleep and went back to stupid bed, muttering darkly.

At 9.02am the little boy's mother peeked in into her son's room and found him sprawled on his bed, sleeping sweetly. He had dealt with his other sock and got on a shoe before nodding off his mother noted with an indulgent smile. It was a pity to wake him, but he had been waiting for this day for so long. She shook his shoulder. "Come on, lazy bones. Up you get."

The little boy went from horizontal to vertical in a matter of seconds, from undressed to clothed in under a minute, and was downstairs eating his breakfast with jiggly anticipation before his mother had a chance to catch her breath.

"Oi don oike paw'ige!" he informed her through a mouthful of porridge. The disliked cereal was rapidly flung in the general direction of the little boy's mouth and soon, for want of a better word, finished. The little boy was ready to leave, but to his intense disgust, his parents had settled in and turned to their inevitable past time of discussing the weather and worrying.

"But what if it rains? Roberta said her knee was playing up."

"There's not a cloud in the sky, dear, now would y–"

"He'll be late! I know it; it would be just like that man."

"Dearest, he's the emperor, if he wants to be late to his own parade we just have to humour him."

"But the wee thing's been waiting for this for months, it would be so unfair – perhaps he should wear an extra jacket just in case ..."

After many elaborate pantomimes and hints, displaying the subtlety generally only found in a large club with nails, the little boy eventually engineered his parents out the front door.

They set out through lanes thronged with people, each one wrapped up in their own bubble of spine-tingling anticipation. The people, not the lanes – they were festooned with banners and posters (the bunches of balloons already having been popped by dysfunctional youths who were too cool to be appropriately overcome by the occasion).

When the family finally arrived at one of the parade streets, the little boy's elbows made short work of finding him the best spot. The street began and ended in sharp corners so the Emperor would only be seen for the time it took him to process forty metres. The little boy leaned out as far as the cord surrounding the footpath would let him, determined not to miss a single second. A great cheer started up and he thrilled to the tips of his toes, feeling the whole city share his excitement.

The parade started at 11.00am precisely, and as time passed the roar diminished; the distant cheering from the crowds lining other streets silenced as the Emperor passed them by. The little boy was sure that this was because of the overwhelming awe they felt looking at such a magnificent personage as the Emperor.

"Here he comes, here he comes!"

The procession rounded the corner, and their reigning monarch was revealed for all to see. _All_ of their reigning monarch was revealed for all to see.

He proceeded with stately bearing beneath a crimson canopy richly embroidered with gold thread, waving slowly with one cupped hand and occasionally giving a regal nod to his subjects. His entourage walked before and behind him in dignified silence, apart from one of the canopy bearers who was attempting to stifle giggles in his collar.

A horrified hush fell over the crowd.

In later years, the adolescent boy would suggest that it _was_ in awe of the Emperor's magnificent ... personage.

But at the time, the little boy tipped his head to one side in confusion and said in a loud carrying voice, "That isn't the Emperor; he doesn't have any clothes on! Look, you can see his–"

The little boy's father prudently covered the little boy's mouth.

"Is that any way to address royalty? Really, lad, I thought your mother and I had raised you better. We will be having a word or two when we get home." To the contrary, his tone hinted that the consequences of rudeness would have very little to do with words at all. "I'm awfully sorry, sire. Don't know what's got into him. He's young, and when you're young ... well, you remember what it's like."

But the little boy's father's apology went unheard as first the canopy bearer, and then the entourage, followed by the rest of the crowd, collapsed into piles of spluttering laughter.

Both of the little boy's wrists were grasped by strong adult hands, and his parents hustled him away from the outburst of merriment

"I have never been so embarrassed in all my life!" exclaimed the little boy's mother, worrying her lower lip and pressing her free hand to her red hot cheeks. "You can forget about going next year, young man!"

But the little boy didn't mind. It had all been a bit of a disappointment, really.

The end.

* * *

_The date is significant, as others living in the Commonwealth might be aware –__ though apparently the UK doesn't celebrate this Birthday, crazy. For those of you who ponder these things (and I know I would if I weren't, in fact, me), "Oi don oike paw'ige!" is "I don't like porridge!" said through a mouthful of peanut butter and jam sandwich. Extensive research was done, and the sandwich gives more easily transcribable results, porridge having a lot of wet spluttering sounds.And for bonus points see if you can guess the little boy's name._


	3. The Distressed Cleaning Lady

**The Distressed Cleaning Lady **or The Neighbours who Worried about the Devaluement of Their Property After, well, you know … What Happened. Which Happened? The … discreet cough Tragedy. Oh, yes! That was Shocking, wasn't It?!

Once upon Monday the 31st of May at 6.00am on the dot, a cleaning lady let herself into the gingerbread cottage.

The cleaning lady was 55 (or 21, depending on who she was speaking to) and thought that she had seen it all. She hadn't been fazed when she had to clean up copious amounts of egg yolk from beneath the Thomson's wall. She had handled, with great dignity and very little greed, picking up the silver droppings left by Baron Michaelwhite's goose. She had even managed to give Queen Ciúme's mirror a good dusting and a piece of her mind on the vice of gossiping before she was subsequently tossed out on her ear.

But this, the cleaning lady decided, was going a little too far.

And don't get her wrong, she wasn't one to complain. Oh no, adding a sack of icing sugar and a piping bag to her essential cleaning tools was only practical, but getting dearer what with the prices of things these days. Never did she curse at the rain clouds though she knew it would mean four hours of shovelling sticky goop out of the garden the next day. And she was making quite a nice turnover selling dietary concoctions to combat the sudden obesity epidemic in the village.

But this, the cleaning lady decided again, was all a bit much.

She stalked out of the house and went to the constabulary office to notify them that the back half of her former employer could be found sticking out of an oven and the other residents of the gingerbread cottage were mysteriously absent.

.o.o.o.

The neighbours of the gingerbread cottage were terribly shocked when they learned what had happened.

They always knew there was something fishy about those children. That Boy had never gone outside, and That Girl never kept play dates with any of their children though she had seemed delighted to receive the invitation.

If one listened to gossip (which naturally, one didn't; but these were _special_ circumstances), it was said that That Boy and That Girl had been thrown out of their own home! Can you believe it? The mind boggles to think what That Girl and That Boy must have done for their parents to … well! And when the old lady found Those Children, they were vandalising her property. Tearing huge chunks off it, trampling all over her azalea beds to get at the window trimmings, the doorbell was bitten clean off! Can you warrant it? But the wee dear took them in, out of the goodness of her heart; did you ever hear the like?

A week after the Incident, a rumour started flying around that recipes for properly prepared thigh bone, human thigh bone, had been found in the gingerbread cottage. And a book which detailed how to make eyeball stew; not that it specified what type of eyeballs, but apparently the helpful illustrations left very little to the imagination.

The rumour was naturally discounted. That sort of thing happened, of course, but not in Their Neighbourhood, the neighbours agreed with the unshakeable belief of those who can pronounce capitals.

The gingerbread cottage was salvaged and eaten at the harvest festival that year. On the site it had situated, a Home for Delinquent Children was built in the memory of the old lady who had taken in so many, and had been tragically betrayed by those she tried to help.

The end.

_Or The Writer who Realises that this is Rather Short, and Half of It is Taken up by the Title, but She was Just Having so Much Fun and Kinda got Carried Away. _

_If you wish to read more of Baron Michaelwhite, you can find him in _I am Jill_ by Allergic-to-Paradox, who very kindly allowed me to steal him. _


	4. The Promiscuous Vegetable in the Tower

_Trumpets flourish. Drum roll, please ..._

* * *

**The Promiscuous Vegetable in the Tower**

Once upon Tuesday the 8th of November, at 7.26pm, the little old woman reminded herself for the umpteenth time that the place wouldn't have been so dirt cheap if had had traditional methods of entering and exiting. And if there was ever a girl who deserved having half her scalp ripped out every time she got a visitor, it was the one two metres of plaited hair away. Despite the little old women's best intentions (though admittedly some, most, of those intentions had not made it all the way to actions), the girl was showing alarming tendencies to be the daughter of her parents.

It began when the girl was twelve. Puberty had hit her early and instead of entering a ten-year period of elbows, knees, and spots, she had progressed straight to porcelain skin and a figure that would usually take a corset and a couple of socks to achieve. The girl had looks that could make a grown man cry; or so the little old woman hoped. Instead, many of the grown men, and all of the men stuck in said ten-year period, got a dangerous shiny gleam in their eyes when the girl passed by, and the little old woman sensibly barricaded the girl in their house. By the time of her fourteenth birthday, the girl was monumentally bored and didn't mind who knew of it. So when the neighbours (new neighbours, and better, the little old woman _supposed_, but the man's hair needed a good combing) complained about knowing of it at three o'clock in the morning, the little old woman decided enough was enough.

Dragging herself over the window frame, the little old woman collapsed in an undignified heap on the floor. The girl remained in her pretty gilt chair by the window, clutching her aching head.

"How on earth can one little woman be so heavy? I swear you weigh twice as much as the prince. I refuse to let you up again 'til you visit the cleaning lady."

"_What_ did you say?"

"Oh, don't give me that snarky, bloated look; everyone's doing it," the girl replied with a contemptuous slitty-eyed glance.

The little old woman hesitated as she tried to decide whether she was more upset that the girl was keeping dangerous secrets or that she had just been called fat twice in as many minutes. Her mildly developed parenting skills won out. "What 'prince'?"

The girl gasped and belatedly clapped a hand over her mouth. As she searched desperately for an excuse, she fell back on her default position: "You're ruining my life!"

"I am not. I merely asking what manner of man you have allowed into your bed chamber. Your bed chamber!" The little old woman tried to tower over the girl but had to settle for glaring at her eye to eye.

"The best manner of man," the girl sighed, her countenance suddenly overcome with the worst manner of soppy devotion. "He first was enchanted by my singing, my song more pleasing to his ear than lark's. He waited for days near my tower but out of sight, observing the comings and goings of the evil witch –" the little old woman raised an eyebrow "– the evil, conniving, _despotic_ witch, until he steeled his courage to meet the woman of his dreams." The girl's raptures drew her to her feet, and she watched in her mind's eye the events unfolding. "From the bottom of the tower, he called up the witch's secret words of admittance." "I didn't think royalty were allowed to swear," the little old woman commented and was ignored. "Expertly climbing the golden ropes lowered to him, he _gracefully_ entered the tower room and swept his enchanting lady into his arms!" The girl tried to whirl about in delight but got twisted up in her hair, falling ignominiously to the floor.

"What is _that_?!" the little old woman hissed, pointing at the girl's rounded stomach, exposed in the disarray of clothes. The dear reader must remember that sock-and-corset figures are not given to oddly distributed pounds, and up until now any excess had migrated more northward.

"And how have I affronted you now, despot?" She rolled her eyes so hard she almost strained a muscle.

"You hussy!"

"What!"

"You and the prince ... and you ..." the little old woman made a series of complicated hand gestures. "You're pregnant."

"What?" said the bewildered girl.

"You are growing round with child."

"What?"

"In a matter of months babies will come splurting from out of your body in a very uncomfortable way."

"What?!" Water began welling in the girl's eyes.

"It's a very natural process; lots of women do it. And what with the latest medicinal advances only about half of them die now days."

The girl bust into tears.

"Oh, girl, dearie," the little old woman gave her an awkward hug. "Do you know your prince's name?"

The girl's head shook, more like a shiver than a movement of dissent. "He said he loved me. But I haven't seen him since ... I ... and ... I'll just have to sit here and wait." She collapsed in her chair, her shoulders hunched under an awful weight.

The little old woman could not stand it. "That's certainly not the attitude I raised you to take!" she cried rallyingly. "If you want your man, you'd best go find him. You know he's a prince and I imagine you can describe him intimately, shouldn't be too hard. Nothing ventured, nothing gained and all that."

Tear-drenched eyes met hers in a pitiful gaze."Will you come with me?"

"With my joints, after climbing up and down this tower every day? Not on your life. I will wait here in case the fellow turns up. Now go pack up a bag, there's a good girl."

As the girl rushed about flinging things into a velvet sack, the little old woman hunted down a pair of sewing scissors.

"One last thing before you go." Slowly and arduously the little old woman sheared through the top of the girl's plait. Her freed hair wisped gently around her face. With a grateful, watery brave smile, the girl climbed onto the window sill.

"Be care, be safe. Good luck, my child," the little old woman called after her as she descended.

.o.o.o.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!"

The little old woman woke with a jerk. That was certainly not any of the secret admittance words thingies _she_ had ever used.

From outside the window came a quiet scuffling and a dark silhouette bobbed in the embrasure, blacking out the moonlit sky. She waited until he was fully inside the room and fumbling about with flint and wick before pronouncing softly but sternly, "You."

The sudden flare of light illuminated the terror in his eyes. "You!" the prince, for it must be he, accused. "What have you done with her? Why is the hair here, but my love gone? Oh, jealous evil, thou hast done away with her!"

"Go soak your head, you wee upstart," the little old woman muttered, levering herself up off the bed she had been lying on. "I have a bone to pick with you, so cut the nonsense and let's talk about this like reasonable adults. I assume you were an adult when you callously seduced my child?" She descended upon him, one finger fiercely wagging.

"Get away from me, witch!" he shouted.

"Not again," the little old woman sighed. "I don't have time for this, my baby girl has been wandering in search of you for six weeks now." She jabbed viciously at his chest, and he startled backwards. "She's a special girl, and I don't know what you've done to deserve it but she's carrying your child. So you better get out there, find her and do the right thing by her pretty damn quick, mister, or I will slap you with a paternity suit so fast it'll make your crown spin. And ye shall owe a terrible price in child support!" Good measure had seemed to do the trick last time.

She speared her finger at him again but, anticipating another poke, the prince was already dodging, this time a little too far. The little old woman barely had time to say "Be careful!" before he toppled backwards out the window.

The little old woman peered over the window sill; the bush of briars surrounding the tower seemed to have broken his fall, more is the pity. When last she had spoken to the girl a week ago, she had still been utterly infatuated with him. But the prince was entire too much like the girl's father for the little old woman to approve; he had a bit more backbone perhaps but was indubitably just as ridiculous. Was it really too much to ask that the girl find some nice, kind, sensible farmer? After a moment of contemplation, the little old woman nodded. Awkwardly sliding down the hairy rope and passing the prince's sprawled body without a glance, she set off to make sure it wasn't.

The end.

* * *

_And there you have i__t. I hope all those who asked so nicely found it worth the wait.  
_

_Deleted Scene__ (goodness, aren't we getting fancy), comes just after "the little old woman decided enough was enough":_

First, they tried gainful employment. In a neat, navy, severely plain dress, the girl was sent to the baker. And the washerwoman. And the cleaning lady, and the jam maker, and the music teacher. It wasn't that the girl was bad at her work, it was just it had a tendency not to get done on account of the pile of men at her feet, sometimes reaching up to three deep and eight wide.


	5. The Political Princess

**The Politically Aware Princess with Better Things to Do than Sleep**

Once upon Wednesday the 16th of July, at 11.30am, a princess was exploring the tallest tower of her castle followed by an entourage of dust bunnies clinging to the train of her third best dress.

In half an hour, she would be forced into her second best dress for lunch, and she was not to so much as think about touching her best dress until six o'clock, on pain of death. The princess knew for certain that there were laws against beheading princesses, particularly on their birthdays, but the Royal Dresser had had that crazy look in her eyes and the princess had wisely decided to quietly disappear.

Edging up the crumbling stonework stairs, the princess shuddered as cobwebs threw themselves at her hair with the twice the enthusiasm of a long lost lover. At the top was a thin timber door; a thin strip of light marked the gap between its foot and the floor and from it a steady squeaking creak emerged. With her shoulder, she heaved against the wood and was sent tumbling into the room behind as it immediately gave way beneath her weight. Odd, since every other hinge in the tower had rusted solid.

In the centre of the bare, blank room, sat a little old woman on a wobbly stool before an ancient wheel, spinning out lumpy, erratic yarn that the princess for a few moments mistook to be a half-dozen worms that had swallowed a family of mice whole.

"Come here, my child. I have a pretty gift for you," the little old woman crooned without turning to see her visitor, stroking a wizened finger along the wheel's splintery wood.

"What is it?"the princess wondered, her eyes growing as wide as saucers, the rose and gilt ones not the willow patterns reserved for special occasions. Very odd. "Oh! and how sharp and wicked that long pointy thing appears. Please, may I try?"

The little old woman nodded eagerly and trembling with anticipation, stepped aside.

The princess sat, rolled back the sleeves of the third best dress, picked up one of the little old woman's feeble strings and bound back her hair. Settling herself, she began a steady foot action and competently fed the separate strands into one side of the machine. From the other side, an even stream of wool spooled. "Your problem," she explained, "is the way you hold your wrist. An even tension must kept between the leading fingers and the wheel or you'll get lumps. It's the hardest part to learn but once you've got it the rest is straightforward." She glanced up at the little old woman. "Don't think I haven't seen through you, witch. I know all about you and your silly little curse, and I took the precaution of beginning spinning lessons at the age of ten."

Spluttering, the little old woman pulled herself up to her full diminutive height. "How _dare_ you!"

"One of my fairy gifts was intelligence. And believe me it took a lot of it to smuggle a wheel into the very palace and find someone brave enough to teach me. Outlawing spinning! Do you have any idea what your temper tantrum has cost my country? The price of cloth has quintupled in the past sixteen years. Our clothing and textiles industry has completely bottomed out. You better have a good explanation!" Despite her rising fury, the princess had yet to break her regular rhythm or produce a single imperfection.

"You seem pretty well dressed," the little old woman accused, though sheepishly.

"Through no fault of my own!" the princess raged. "A princess is held to different standards. I tried to follow that Emperor's new trend, but my wouldn't let me leave my bedroom! He is a man of forward thinking, he understands the need for innovation and his country isn't even in crisis! How can _we_ be so unconscionable? Even the subjects can't see the big picture. I wore a burlap sack on the Grand Tour in protest and in every second town was pelted with vegetables. They complained that I was a disappointment and a disgrace to the country, when it was them I was endeavouring to help. It's not _fair_!"

Unnoticed by the thundering princess, the little old woman had picked up the spindle and at this break in her tirade, jabbed her upper arm. "_Life's_ not fair," she said somewhat smugly.

The princess gaped at her in outrage. "You can't do that! Once I've gotten through this birthday, my parents will accept they have to let me learn statecraft and political science, and I'll make my country better, I'll make my country great. You can't _do_ this!" She tried to stand up and dizzily collapsed against the little old woman.

"Careful dearie, slowly now." The little old woman struggled to hold the princess upright. "Your country's not ready for you yet; here's hoping in a century it will be. What those glittery idiots were thinking of giving you intelligence and independence, I don't know. Why couldn't they stick with beauty and a pretty singing voice? There's a reason for traditions. Whoa," she huffed, as the princess slipped. "Come on now. Just lie yourself down here and try to get comfortable, your winks are going to be considerable more than forty."

"Shleep? Bu-u-ut you want me deaaaad," the princess slurred. Her knees gave out, toppling both of them over.

"Do I indeed? They would say that. No! Don't frown; nobody wants to kiss a wrinkly prune. And let me get rid of these cobwebs. You have to be presentable for your true love."

"Chroo luv?! I refushe to shumbit to a man. I dah neeeed one, I be queeen!" the princess tried to shout as she was dragged into a convenient pool of flattering light. But in spite of her well-developed social conscience and revolutionary mindset, somewhere deep in her head a little voice cursed the fact she had not been allowed to wear her best dress.

The end.

* * *

_Ah! the joys of not having names. Not only does it mean the writer refers to them by one description _ad nauseum_, but it leads to these delightful conundrums. Is the little old woman she whom we have come to know and love or another woman who is, as it were, also elderly and on the short side? You can decide for yourself; I don't mind, go crazy._


	6. The Thirteenth of October

**The ****Old Man who Laughed All the Way to Market **

Once upon Saturday the 13th of October, at 11.43am, a wizened old man looked guilelessly into a young man's eyes while desperately biting the insides of his cheeks to stop himself from crowing with victory.

The young man picked up each _vicia faba_ and peered at it from every angle, his face clenched in the tight scowl of a knowledgeable connoisseur. Or at least one with a bowel obstruction.

The old man was not fooled; only the buyers went so far as to inspect the beans.

"But they look rather normal," the young man

"Oh yes, most wise and benevolent young master!" (Flattery had never been known to hurt anyone in the old man's lengthy experience) "A little _too_ normal, some might say. That's how you knows they're magic."

The young man nibbled his lower lip and looked doubtfully to his cow then to the beans. "What did you say they did?"

The old man hesitated then pulled him around to the other side of the cow. Conspiratorially, the old man peeked over the top of the cow, checking up and down the road, then whispered, "Oh wary and inquisitory young master, it is right that you should ask. But one so worldly and intelligent as your incomparable personage must know that to ask what a wish was means it can't come true. It is the way with all magic, question it and it don't work; estimable, ingenuous, daring ..." he trailed off as the indecision in the young man's eyes began tipping in favour of suspicion. 'Tell you what, you've got eight in hand, I'll throw in ten more and this lovely pewter mug," the object in question magically materialised in the old man's hand, "and all for the low, low price of one scrawny cow. I know what you're thinking; this opportunity is too good to be true! And it is at great detriment to my self I offer it to you. My little one's won't eat for a week but I can see you are the man destined to have these beans."

"Destined..." the young man murmured. "My ma says I'm a good for nothing layabout and I'll never find my purpose."

"And she was the one who sent you to market with the cow, I'll wager. Like nothing better than a common farmhand she thinks you. Listen, you give me this old cow and you take these and go seek your fortune. I believe in you!" the old man exclaimed, grabbing the young man by the shoulders, apparent sincerity burning from his eyes.

The old man thought for a moment he had lain it on a smidgen thick but then the young man wrenched himself from the old man's grasp and ran off down the road, practically wetting himself in his excitement to get home.

Chuckling quietly, the old man rubbed one of the cow's ears and patted its head, then led it sedately in the opposite direction towards market.

.o.o.o.

**The Entrepreneurial Woman**

Once upon Saturday the 13th of October, at 3.52pm, the jam maker surreptitiously rubbed the back of her neck where her tray's suspender was digging in and struggled not to roll her eyes. Despite the large signs shouting 'Get away, you foolish woman!' that her instincts had put up as soon as the tailor's shout had stampeded up the street, she had returned to his shop in the misguided hope that maybe he had wanted more jam.

He hadn't.

What he wanted was to show her the seven corpses strewn across his work table, slain by the almighty might of his great leather belt.

The jam maker looked at the dead flies, then at the tailor, then back at the flies, and then, for the sake of symmetry, frowned at the tailor again.

"… And?" she asked, after an extensive pause that was long past pregnant and happily putting three children through school.

"And now I am off to seek my fortune. I am too great a man to be confined to this village! The world shall know of my deeds and tremble, in terror or desire depending on that particular part of the world's sex. I want the women to fancy me not the men," he clarified. The jam maker continued to stare. "For I have slain seven with one blow, as you see here on my belt. And the whole world shall see it also and tremble, the men in fear and the women–"

"Yes, yes, I heard you the first time," the jam maker cut in. "And you think you're going to get girls because of some words – badly stitched words! – on a second rate leather belt? Well, I'll tell you right now I'm not feeling the least inclination to turn into a quivering mass of desire."

"Just you wait, jelly maker. Just you wait," the tailor said with terrible gravity before waltzing past her and out of the village.

Two months later, the jam maker brought out her newly branded jam just in time for the coronation. _Valiant Preserves: Because even heroes get in a jam sometimes! Endorsed by our new king._

He did not endorse it _exactly_, but then he did not want the general populace to know _exactly_ what he had slain, seven with one blow.

.o.o.o.

**The Maid who had Allergies**

Once upon Saturday the 13th of October, at 8.31pm, a pot maid looked up and saw her good friend, the chambermaid, in dire need of assistance. It was not so much that the chambermaid had a rash, but that a rash in a sudden fit of whimsy had taken to walking around in the shape of a chambermaid.

"What happened? Sit down right now and I'll get some chicken fat and doc leaves on it." The pot maid bustled over to the cold cabinet and scooped a large dollop of congealed fat out of a large blue jug. She hustled over to the window sill and picked the largest leaf she could find then returned to the chambermaid, a large slightly self-satisfied smile on her face as her friend had done exactly what she had been told and collapsed on a stout wooden stool.

"Now, tell me all about." The pot maid seized one blotched arm and rubbed it with the doc leaves then smothered it with fat. The chambermaid shuddered and sent the pot maid a look that said quite clearly, _you have no idea what you are doing, do you? _with only a small lift of an eyebrow and twist of the lips.

"This is how my mother did it," the pot maid replied crisply.

"And heavens forbid I slander your dear redoubtable ma. Though _who _was it again that made her late husband's daughter a slave in her own home?"

It would be the greatest ambition of any ice age to achieve the chilliness of the silence that followed.

"But, my goodness, how wonderfully not itchy my arm now is," the chambermaid blurted. "And did you see that girl who came in from the storm? I'm sure you could tell me many shrewd and wittily scathing things about her!"

The pot maid sniffed, but divulged in a mollified tone, "The gates men say she's a princess but they _would_ be turned by a pretty face. Personally, I'm very suspicious of a girl who wanders around in the middle of a storm and just _happens_ to come across the castle instead of one of the houses in town and _happens_ to be a princess who deserves the best food and bed –"

The chambermaid groaned. "Please, don't mention that word!"

"Oh, yes," the pot maid said with a start. "What happened? Last I heard you were sent to make up her ... article of furniture on which she shall sleep," she finished carefully.

"_Matresses_! Twenty enormous, pox-ridden, fluffy, vile, stupid, scratchy feather mattresses is what happened. And I'm a inflamed mass of allergies for _what_?!" the beleaguered chambermaid shrieked. "So a pea can get squashed flat before anyone even gets in the bed! But I got my own back." She smirked.

"Pray tell."

"You know how the assistant gardener is sweet on me?" The pot maid nodded. "Well, let's just say that when left alone for three hours to make up a misbegotten bed it is very easy to slip out and return with a kilo of gravel to fill up the top mattress without anyone noticing. It will serve them right when our mummy's boy of a prince has to marry some girl who walked in off the street."

"Oh, you are _too_ bad," gasped the pot maid, grinning. "When can I tell everyone?"

"Just as soon as their marriage is official," the chambermaid laughed, idly itching one sore red arm.

The end.

* * *

_What?! You saw through my dastardly plan of pretending three short conversations constituted one story by saying they happened on the same day? But how?!  
__Does anyone actually know what went on rashes prior to modern medicine? I got a bit stuck on that one. The old man got all the roast beef and the young man got none, so yes the other allusions are deliberate also. Indeed I did change the jam maker's description slightly so it would have the same number of syllables as 'Enry 'Iggins. O, and the pun on pregnant pause: in my opinion, funniest thing I've ever written. _

_Just thought someone might like to know.  
_

_Gah! that was hideously disjointed. I apologise._


	7. The Cindy Story

_This story (and it really is a whole one this time, promise) is dedicated to Leah Kesri who was glad that I hadn't written it. Because that is the kind of terrible person I am._

* * *

**The Plea**

Once upon Thursday the 18th of April, at 10.50pm, a prince found his attention wandering until it was suddenly arrested by the sight of the most beautiful woman in the world, exquisitely clad in a dress that shone like the sun, descending the ballroom's grand staircase. Followed by the sight of the most beautiful woman in the world clutching desperately at the banister as her slippered feet slid on the staircase's dangerously polished marble.

The prince nearly hurried over to assist her, but then remembered himself and more importantly that the man he was speaking to was a very dignified and devious foreign official who had probably managed to stall two trade agreements, instigate a war, and secure his marriage to the king's wife's cousin while he had been distracted. When the prince looked up again, the most beautiful woman in the world was nowhere to be seen.

Later, as he went to get punch and garlic prawns, the prince spotted her again behind a large potted fern. On close inspection, she was not _the_ most beautiful woman in the world, though definitely in the top one hundred; low seventies probably.

And sadly lacking in brains, the prince sighed as he sauntered towards her. "You know, a dark corner is not the best place to hide if one is wearing a dress that shines like the sun," he said by way of breaking the ice.

The ice did not so much as crack. If anything, it was covered over by a stiff haw frost. "And who are you?" the woman asked rudely, revealing her age to be younger than the prince had supposed, but it did not prevent his curt reply,

"I am your Sovereign Prince and Lord, young woman and you'd best remember it. Or I might take it into my head that you could do without yours."

"Oh please do," she muttered.

"What?"

"Oh please do ... let me make it up to you by dancing, with you, your Highness," the young woman stumbled her way through the sentence and awkwardly stuck out her arms which the prince took up before consulting his brain.

Before either of them quite realised what was happening, they were sucked into the waltz and swept around the ballroom.

The dress that shone like the sun was eye-watering in the light of thousands of stalactited candles. It was an unfortunate choice, bringing out the green in her eyes but making her complexion seem sallow, though undoubtedly an expensive one. The prince wondered that he did not recognise the face that went with such wealth. "Why don't I know you? For I am sure I would remember a lady as beautiful as yourself," he added belatedly.

The young woman made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort and tripped over his foot, perhaps accidentally. After a pause, she took a deep breath, opened her mouth, looked up at the prince, then fastened her gaze on a spot over his left shoulder and let the breath out in an irritated sigh.

They continued dancing in silence. By the hand on her waist, the prince could tell each time she sucked in air to speak and each time she huffed it out as she lost her nerve. It was not until the final chords of the waltz were winding themselves down that her courage was screwed to the sticking point.

"Pleaseyouhavetohelpme."

"What? I mean, I beg your pardon?" stuttered the prince.

"I am being kept as a virtual slave in my own home. I am forced to work by my step-mother and –sisters for no pay and scarcely room or board. The high neckline of my dress is not to frustrate roving eyes but cover the scars of my beatings. Please. You _have_ to help me."

The clock struck half past eleven and the young woman startled out of his arms with an undignified _Eep!_ which was not at all redeemed by the stream of expletives that trailed after her as she raced out of the room.

.o.o.o.

**The Deal**

Once upon Friday the 19th of April, at 10.59, the prince was waiting at the foot of the grand staircase and grabbed the young woman's wrist as soon as she appeared, pulling her into a shadowed embrasure.

"What??!?!!" he asked, his soul-deep, still-awake-as-dawn-was-breaking perplexity bursting out in a torrent of extraneous punctuation.

The young woman shuffled her feet and cast embarrassed looks over her shoulder. "Everyone's staring. Your Highness. Sir," she muttered.

"Your own silly fault for wearing a dress that, what's it doing? Glowing like the moon – what were you thinking?!"

Bridling, she hissed back, "I have no choice in the matter. Now would you ask me to dance before we have a minor scandal on our hands?"

Ignoring all his well-learned manners, the prince yanked on the young woman's wrist again, dragging her into the swirling waltz. They set off at a furious, jerky pace.

Though the prince's glare commanded instant explanation, the young woman waited until the soothing ¾ time had dulled it from murderous to severely unamused before speaking. "As I said yesterday, my present living conditions have become unacceptable and I would appreciate your help in alleviating said misery."

"And how do you propose I do that?" The prince did not realise his grip on her hand was tightening until her saw a flash of pain in her green eyes.

"I propose that you propose. You have a unique opportunity to engage anyone you so choose, and wouldn't it be noble and generous and Good of you if that choice aided someone in direst need? Please, it has to be you. I would not dare have be so forward if I could see any other way," she hesitated, gingerly testing the freedom her fingers were now afforded. "If I may be perfectly honest, I would much rather marry the grocer's boy, I'd better know how to act as a grocer's wife, but my step-mother is a powerful woman and–" she stopped again, grimaced, rolled her eyes and got it over with, "frankly, I need someone who can pull rank on her, and that means you. These balls were like a godsend. Oh, I know I'm objectifying you! Or status-ifying, or ... something."

The look on her face was so comically tragic, the prince almost laughed, but turned it into a cough and said gruffly, "And what's in it for me? If I may be equally candid."

"What more do you need? Your approval rating will go through the roof. It's _oh_ so manly and masculine to rescue a forlorn young woman from Imprisonment most Perfidious and Dire. The people will admire and sing your praises for aye." She vapidly fluttered her eyelashes at him, her expression mock adoring, then pursed her lips in sudden thought. "Of course, the people are apt to be rather common, and will most likely translate your noble deed into bawdy lyrics which, while amusing, would not be the best first impression for your mother to have of me. Now, if you could manage to get kidnapped by pirates then marooned, and slay a dragon or two during our engagement some poet would be sure to write an epic poem about you. Though perhaps you should take one along with you, just to be sure."

The prince tamped down a smile. "Now you're just being silly; I'd strangle the man with his own artistic temperament if we got stuck on an island together." The young woman nodded in solemn agreement. "I'm afraid that won't do. What else?"

"I have a fairy godmother. I've only seen her work in women's clothing, but I dare say she'd be a dab hand at …" She hesitated, considering him up and down. "… embroidered pantaloons?"

He looked at her.

"Don't get uppity, your Highness, or she'll set her magic on you rather than to help you," the young woman warned.

"And I'll wake up one day as a frog?"

"No," she smiled evilly, and pinched his cheek like an old aunt. "A rabbit. A fluffy, cuddly, white rabbit, with big blue eyes and a twitchy pink nose. I will call you Snugly Snoogly, and you will be told _how adorable_ you are for the rest of your life."

The prince's lips twitched, then grinned and he burst into chuckles.

The young woman straightened her hand, laying the palm to his cheek. He looked down at her again and suddenly realised her eyes weren't green at all, more yellowy at the centre and blue on the outsides with a smattering of brown spots.

"I could make you laugh every day."

Perhaps fortunately, her slippers slid out from under her once again, and the moment was lost in their struggle to stay upright. "More than once," she corrected herself, "if I go on wearing these silly things."

The clock began to chime the half-hour. The young woman sighed, almost in relief, took a deep breath and looked enquiringly at the prince.

"It would be an honour to rescue you, my lady," he said, raising her hand very properly to his lips.

She faltered, flushed, muttered an embarrassed thank you, and fled.

.o.o.o.

**The Deal Breaker **

Once upon Saturday the 20th of April, at 11.22pm, the prince had almost lost his patience and temper, when he saw his lady rushing down the stairs towards him.

"I'm so sorry. The family had pumpkin soup for dinner and I hadn't realised it was the last one so we were running about in such a fluster; I had to make do with a zucchini," she gasped in one breath.

Instead of trying to make sense of her explanation, the prince said what was foremost in his mind, "You look beautiful."

His lady's shy smile was touched with a hint of smug satisfaction. "I told her so. My fairy godmother was trying to get me into a dress that glittered like the stars but I held out for sparkling like morning dew on spring grass."

"It suits you. Would you care to dance, my lady? To wile away the time 'till twelve."

His outstretched hand was left hanging in the air. "Midnight?" his lady demanded. "What happens at midnight?"

"The engagement is announced," said the prince slowly.

There was a protracted pause filled with the chiming of the clock, and a faint whirring as his lady's brain began working double time.

"Ooo! Great new plan. What better way to capture the public's imagination than a lost love and a desperate maiden-hunt? Ratings would soar! So," she continued hurriedly, "I'll just slip out now while no one's watching, you can stand here looking adorably bewildered – Perfect! Sorry to love you and leave you, see you in a few days, ta-ta." She twirled in a cascade of sparkles, ran up the stairs, sliding only twice on the smooth marble, and dashed out the door.

"Wait!" the prince shouted, chasing after her. "I don't know your name!" But already it was to late, she had disappeared into the night.

Then something caught his eye. One of the hazardous slippers lay on the castle steps were his lady had abandoned it in her need for speed. The prince picked it up and smiled.

The end.

* * *

_Congratulations for making it! You have just read a grand total of 1,921 words. I'm _so_ sorry. It started out as just a thought that the entire Cinderella thing was a clever media play and then it snowballed in the telling. _


	8. The Seventh Princess

**How the Seventh Princess Swore Revenge on the Royal Treasurer**

Once upon Sunday the 2nd of August, at 12 noon, a gnarled old soldier announced to the throne room that he was no longer young man so the eldest princess would be fine by him. Preparations for the wedding were immediately begun and there was a general rejoicing. The eldest princess did not look particularly pleased but four of her sisters eventually coaxed a strained smile to her lips.

The seventh princess quietly drew her father aside. "Please correct me if I am wrong, but did you say that the cost of replacing our slippers was draining the royal treasury?"

The king gave her a hard stare. "No not 'draining', dear girl; 'sucked bone dry' would be a more accurate approximation."

The seventh princess took a slow breath in and quietly let it out again. Up in the royal astronomer's turret room there was a small _ping_ as the tail fell off a brass monkey. "And just whose authority do you have that on?" she asked quite calmly.

"The Royal Treasurer's, sweetpea, who else? Sweetpea, where are you going?"

He found her eventually in the royal treasurer's apartment which was completely devoid of order, small expensive things that could be easily stowed in a traveling trunk, and royal treasurers.

"Every night," the seventh princess began, in a voice so low that the king had trouble hearing her over the noise of the wind whistling in through a window. A window held ajar by a rope made of sheets. "Every _single _night that we went dancing, I brought back some twigs from the forests of silver and gold and diamonds. I was granted a special permit to do so (that old soldier of yours has committed a felony punishable by eternal ensorcellment by the way, a factor you perhaps should have uncovered before blithely naming him heir apparent, without any advisory council). The special permit ensured we could continue our visits indefinitely without causing undue economic strain; they were happy, we were happy, a win-win situation for all; it should have been perfect. And I gave every cutting over to _him_. I _trusted _him. Don't worry, father," she tossed a small, chilly smile at the king. "I'll set things to right. Royal Treasurer is a particularly redundant and _silly_ position anyway."

Later that night, the seventh princess slipped into the secret passageway intending to explain the unfortunate situation to the dancing princes and hopefully do a little more pruning. She walked through a hall filled with ashes, then another full of sand, and yet another choked with coal dust. When she found the vast lake shrunk to a small, dirty puddle and no sign at all of the enchanted palace, the seventh princess indulged in a full minute of unprincess-like foot stamping and swore vehement, humiliating revenge on the royal treasurer.

The end.

* * *

_To whom it may concern, a year later the royal treasurer returns as a duke, having bought the title with his ill-gotten gains, and proposes to the seventh princess professing he loved her all along. His suit is rejected but he is a very persistent lover, he serenades her, she slaps him a couple of times, it turns into one of those terrible sappy she-hates-him-but-really-she-loves-him stories and they all live happily ever after. _

_The end._

_Again._


	9. The Princess who Fell in a Pond

**The Princess who Fell in a Pond**

Once upon Friday the 4th of February, at 12.04pm, a princess fell into a pond through no fault of her own; the rocks surrounding the pond had been encouraged to grow artistic patches of moss, and her slippers, while perfectly coordinated with her gown and jewellery, had no tread to speak of.

Unfortunately for the princess, fault or no, she _had_ fallen into a pond and on the one day when such an act would bring about international ridicule, the eternal hatred of the royal librarian, and enquiries about the legitimacy of her station in life.

The princess was not sure exactly when royalty had become no longer a question of birth but of the ability to walk three times around a pond with a stack of books perched on one's head, but apparently it had and she was not impressed.

The princess glowered at the carpet of her room, found a tract of pattern she particularly disliked, stalked along it, turned, and paced back again. She did this several times until she felt it was properly subdued, then stopped and announced, "I wish to speak to you," to the empty room.

Around the edge of a suspiciously innocuous tapestry appeared a man silent as a whisper and more non-descript than a thingamebob.

"Your Highness," he said by way of greeting in his infinitely subtle voice.

"Spy master, I have an assignation for you."

"Your Highness," he repeated though this time his meaning was more along the lines of 'so I had already surmised on the strength that when my sovereign princess invites me to her private chamber it is on matters of business, never any other reason, for I am no idiot, and neither are you so let's leave off stalling and get to the point. And haven't we had a discussion about not addressing me by my title or any other moniker unless absolutely necessary?'

The princess tossed her head at the reprimand, but continued, "Which female in this castle would nobody miss? Who is so mannerless, so greedy, so vile and infuriating that all who know her will rejoice to see the back of her? Where do I find the person whose very absence would make my country a better place?"

To his credit, the spy master did not so much as bat an eyelid. "Your Highness."

"I don't need to explain myself to you, just give me the name."

"The pigsty girl, your Highness."

"Why are you amused? What could you possibly find _amusing_? This is _not_ a situation that calls for amusement."

"Your Highness."

"And don't patronise me."

It was the turn of the woven mat beneath the window to suffer the princess's displeasure. "Take my copy of the princess rules," presumably she was still addressing the spy master though the direction of her attention suggested she thought the mat was equally well suited to deploying the instructions. "I have no further use for them, and did not in the first place either – walking around a pond, I mean _really_. Tell this pigsty girl if she follows them to the letter and she will win herself a prince; if she fails, no one in this kingdom will have ever heard of her. Tell her that. And go after her and make sure she does it properly for I will not tolerate that _prince_" - she managed to insult the prince's sexual preferences and question the fidelity of his mother with a single word as it ground its way through her teeth - "to think he has the better of me. I will make him rue the day that he did not _beg_ me to become his consort before subjecting me to the enactment of parlour tricks. _Parlour tricks_, sir - let there be no end to his suffering."

"You highness."

"Of course eliminate any evidence linking the girl back to us. Why even ask? You are no idiot, nor am I."

"Your Higness."

"_Thank you_," she snapped. "That will be all."

"Your Highness."

"I will _not_ calm down."

"You Highness."

There was something in the way he murmured her title that made her shiver. But she hadn't yet removed her soaking dress, stockings, slippers, petticoats, and other paraphernalia deemed necessary for a real princess, so it was no surprise really, truly.

"You'll catch your death," he said quietly.

"I will not! No matter what _he_ thinks, princesses are not flipperty little dolls with perfectly expressed features, deportment, and temperament, to be wrapped in cotton-wool and glittery ribbons, and molly-coddled for the rest of their earthly lives! And if you even dare think that . . ." her voice trailed off as she caught the tail-end of a look that vanished without a trace.

"I never wanted to marry that silly prince anyway," she mumbled to the possibly empty room.

The end.

* * *

_I honestly couldn't say why so many of these stories are concerned with revenging oneself upon another, it's just the way they've turned out._


End file.
